


"Man serves the interests of no creature but himself."

by desthpicable



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abuse, Alex and John meet later in the story, Chopin is the bomb, Classical Music, I'm Bad At Tagging, John has anger issues, John is a pianist, M/M, frick yeah, this is a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 05:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17719379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desthpicable/pseuds/desthpicable
Summary: "Years of pent-up anger decided to show itself that very moment. I didn't say anything. I'm not much of a talker. I just stood up so forcefully my chair fell over and punched her. Square in the nose. You might think I was overreacting. I probably was. I don't regret it, though. And I'll never regret it, not until the day I die."This is a mess!!! :)





	"Man serves the interests of no creature but himself."

**Author's Note:**

> An introduction, I guess.

When I was younger, still living with my mother, she would often ask me to spend more time with her. I usually denied. Before you start calling me a lousy son, I can explain why. You see, she would always start the conversation on a great note, talking about literature and art and all that stuff that interested me but her animated dialogue would soon deteriorate into tedious and meaningless life lessons. They always gave me one hell of a headache. I never listened to a word, and my mother and probably didn't listen to herself either.

But once in a blue moon, I did give her the time of day. I had nothing better to do, so I listened. I picked up every word and turned it over in my mind for the rest of the day. It was difficult to listen to her maundering. She sounded so sure of herself as if she actually thought what she was saying made an ounce of sense. It never failed to ruin my mood. I still listened, though.

Anyway, one of those really boring days when I tuned in, I heard something that really struck a nerve. Struck it so hard that I still remember the exact words that escaped her stupid mouth, four years later.

“Never waste your time with dim folks, Jack. It's just not worth your time.”

Years of pent-up anger decided to show itself that very moment. I didn't say anything. I'm not much of a talker. I just stood up so forcefully my chair fell over and punched her. Square in the nose. You might think I was overreacting. I probably was. I don't regret it, though. And I'll never regret it, not until the day I die.

She didn't even react. I honestly kind of wanted her to react. Slap me or yell at me. Anything. But she just got up and left. Got into her stupid Pontiac and drove off.

She got herself killed in a car accident that day.

I didn't know how to feel when it happened. I never told my father what I did before she left. I'm glad I didn't. He would've murdered me. I'm not joking, I'm really not. I was around 12 at the time. But one thing happened that I'd really like to forget, even though I know I won't. I can still feel the same shock I felt the day it happened. I can still feel the burn of my father's hand meeting my cheek. The searing pain of his fist slamming into my stomach.

That wasn't the last time my dear old father lost his temper.

 

 

Well, now you know the story of most of my boring old childhood. I had it easy compared to a whole lot of people, I really did. My lousy father is still alive if you were wondering. All I want to go to a conservatory, major in piano performance, but my father, of course, has a bone to pick with that idea. He wants me to a lawyer or some crap. Lawyer, my ass! I'd send all my clients to jail! I'd much rather pursue a career in music.

If you're wondering how someone like me was even introduced to something as beautiful as the piano, it was my grandfather. My abuelo. My mother's dad. God, he was so smart. I wonder how he could ever raise such a dull daughter. When I was a kid, around five years old, I would always beg my parents to let me go over to his house. He was a violinist. He'd play such terrific pieces by such amazing composers. I adored everything he played, but I used to have a special fondness for Chopin. The first time I heard him play one of his pieces, I was over the moon. You see, he'd listen real closely to a recording of one of Chopin's pieces on the piano and arrange it for the violin. I remember thinking what he did was pure magic. The first piece he showed me was Nocturne in C Sharp Minor. I fell in love right away. He was the one who taught me how to play the piano.

 He passed away when I was thirteen. But I can hear him playing with me whenever I play the piano. I swear, I really can.

Music is really the only thing keeping me alive at this point. It's the only thing that brings me joy and it reminds me of my abuelo. I don't have any friends. Every time someone tries to talk to me, I end up scaring them away. At least, I think I do. I'm glad, anyway. I don't need any friends and I'm doing just fine without them. I can survive on my own.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I started something! Let's see if I can actually finish it! I'm writing this for practice and to get over a mean writer's block.  
> Oh also I don't know how to end chapters so yeah 8)


End file.
